Ruffled Feathers
by March to the Scaffold
Summary: Antonin Dolohov has been very bored lately. An owl appears to lighten the time. Nothing graphic; rated for theme.


A/N: As a forewarning, thinking on this a bit much may bring about some rather, er, interesting thoughts. I don't own Antonin or anything HP-ish. And I offer a half-apology for the blatant abuse of a Thoreau quote. A rather heart Thoreau myself, but it seemed pertinent enough.

**Ruffled Feathers**

_"I rejoice that there are owls."_  
-Henry David Thoreau-  


It was easy to become lonely and easier still to become hideously bored. Antonin Dolohov found little surprise in the fact that he had once more fallen into a state encompassing both. Draped across a couch, he lay staring vacantly at the ceiling while his fingers pulled at one another. He hummed off and on, a broken strand of music with no sense to it. There was, he lamented, absolutely nothing to do.

Far too many days such as this had marched past already. Antonin wished to leave the house, to roam free. This action had been scathingly explained as impossible, however. Much to his dismay, he had been instructed to remain within until called for. Would it really have been so horrible for him to simply walk out of the house? Of course not! Aside from the potential, oh-so-small small matter of being recognized and pursued, what difficulty could there be? None. None whatsoever.

He had long ago lost track of the time, though time was a matter he cared little for. It was a silly, incomprehensible thing. And what did it matter? So long as he was about, why did it matter when? Then, of course…. What a dreary line of thought, though. He blinked and the thoughts drifted away; no use dwelling on what would only bore him further. Mind rot, and all.

As he raised his right hand, looking critically over its nails, Antonin became aware of a scratching sound at the nearest window. He sighed, considered for a moment, and then sat up, looking at the window. Unsurprisingly, an owl had begun to scratch at the window, begging to be allowed inside. If it truly wanted in, it would have to wait. When especially bored, Antonin was not in the habit of leaping up to allow anyone in. The effort required seemed a bit much.

Who should have sent him an owl? No doubt something dull, but perhaps he might make the best of it. Antonin sat for a moment, head cocked as he studied the bird. It (she? he?) seemed large enough, so far as owls went. If he guessed correctly it was, as his own owl had been, a tawny. He smiled vaguely as he remembered the unfortunately-named Anya; he had been a good little owl. Pity that he had dropped off, really. The colors of this owl matched Anya's quite closely; dark browns, almost a hint of bronze, fading into the whites. Even the eyes, he realized, seemed almost familiar. Very soft, rather small, and just now pleading to be allowed in.

He could of course delay no longer. His prolonged hesitation seemed suddenly to be horrendously rude. Ungentlemanly. Rising quickly, Antonin threw open the window with a flourish. For a moment he watched as the fading rays of sunlight seemed to melt into the owl's colorful back, and then the bird fluttered in to the house. Antonin closed the window, then turned with a smile to the now-settled bird. "Have you got a message for me?"

There was indeed something tied around the owl's leg. Antonin untied the note carefully, a finger running lightly over the soft feathers of the leg as he did so. He threw another fond glance at the bird again and then turned to the note. As he read he began to hum again, the disjointed tune now slightly more upbeat, almost somehow sensuous.

The note itself contained, as he had suspected, a dull request for the dull service of a dull book. What did Mulciber want with another book? Antonin certainly didn't want to look for this one. It had a hideously long and unnecessary title, and would no doubt take a very long time to discover. The search might take hours. And what of the owl? It would be forced to wait with nothing to do and then carry the book, no doubt weighty with boredom, back to Mulciber.

"Poor dear," Antonin cooed sympathetically. He set the letter on a table, stroking the owl's heads with his fingertips. The owl seemed to enjoy this, settling itself into a relaxed posture. Antonin smiled again while running his fingers through the feathers. It had been too long since he had enjoyed a bit of time with an owl; longer even than it had been since he had enjoyed a man or woman. This was a nice looking owl, with what seemed to be a serene temperament. Surely, he couldn't allow the owl to fly away so quickly.

He leaned his head closer, nuzzling the owl. The owl displayed no alarm at this; whether it did later would prove no problem at all. There were ways of keeping any difficulties under control. He spoke softly to the owl, "You've a long and dreary route to follow, and I've rather a dull task to complete." Again he stroked the owl's head, even as he nuzzled its smooth breast. Such nice feathers. It might almost seem a shame to ruffle them so, but the owl could no doubt recompose itself. "I have something we can do before we face the boredom."

What a lovely owl.  



End file.
